A canvassed life.

A blank sheet of paper
Once crumpled cant be restored.
If its recycled,
It loses its roots
So are human connections.
Every colour that goes on the canvas,
Has a meaning,
some meant to be bliss or go amiss.
Who paints this canvas?
Who gets to choose these colours?
Is it time bound or bounded timely.
The idea to erase a painting,
and have a makeover,
Is impertinently impossible.
But then why this yearning?
Do have a do-over,
When contradictions remain
The only commonality between
The old and the new.
The canvas still remains the same,
Tied with complicated contradictions
That when try to assert themselves
Ends up becoming entwined quagmire.
Its better to throw the canvas away
And move on with this so called life